Sunday, August 6, 2017

The Cowboys of Clark's Folly

The Cowboys of Clark’s Folly

by

Linda Nightingale, MM Mayfield,

MJ Flournoy, and Carol Shaughnessy

Blurb:

Four Western Romances from four different authors featuring handsome cowboys to tempt any cowgirl. The cowboys are tough but so are the women who tame them. Love—and lust—under the big blue skies of the Lone Star State. Welcome to Clark’s Folly, Texas, Ma’am.

Today Ash paid no attention to the natural stone construction or the black wrought iron and brass hardware on the stalls. He hurried to the open door framing a cameo of a pretty girl on her knees in the straw beside a sweating black horse. Trish’s wretched expression and the trembling hands stroking Jet’s neck broke his heart. If the stallion died a part of her would die, too.

“Do anything you can, Doc. I don’t care how much it costs.” Ash spoke from the doorway. “If he needs to be flown to A&M you have my okay.”

Trish looked up at him. A tear escaped her lashes, washing a path down her soiled cheek. “You won’t regret it, Ash.”

Irritation sizzled over him. Ash turned and took Dorothy’s shoulders. “Wait in the ranch office. Too many spectators won’t help Jet.”

She allowed him to lead her down an empty corridor. The other horses had been turned out to graze. Trish and Charlie never missed a step. He waved her ahead of him into the AC-cool office. Suddenly Dorothy in her clean, pressed jeans and crisp white shirt reminded him of his wicked stepmother, Deanne. They were both beautiful dolls, only useful as toys.

**

[Minutes later, Dorothy] sashayed out of the barn, bound for comfort. He spun, hurrying back to the stall where Jet fought for his life. When he arrived, he said nothing. Trish didn’t look up. She held the horse’s head for the vet to pump oil into his stomach through the tube inserted in a nostril.

Joe, the vet, shook his head. “If this doesn’t work, next step--- A&M.”

Ash nodded. A desperate horsewoman tilted her head to hide her tears.

Linda’s Bio:

Linda has lived in England, Canada, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta and Houston. For years she bred, trained and showed the majestic Andalusian, so she’s seen a lot of this country from the windshield of a truck towing a horse trailer. Among other awards, she won the Georgia Romance Writers Magnolia Award and the SARA Merritt. A mother, retired legal assistant and member of the Houston Miata Club, she loves to dress up and host formal dinner parties (PS & you know who you are—this is not ‘putting on airs’).

Memories of the night after Cassy’s wedding so long ago ran through Esther’s dreams, as vivid as though no time had passed. Before the wedding Cassandra’s brother had been the sexiest damned man she’d met. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he’d been the perfect poster man for clean-cut Texans or a romance novel cover. At the rehearsal she’d wanted to run her hands through his short curls and over his broad chest. Even in a suit he’d looked untamed and so screwable. All muscles and built like a Greek god, he’d made all the women adjust their bras to show cleavage and check their lipstick.

No damned fair! What the hell excuse could she give for driving past 100 miles an hour? She eased her foot from the accelerator and the lights behind her seemed to give her more space. Seeing a “city limits” sign behind her eased her mind, so she slowed to a normal speed. Cop Mustang still dogged her bumper. When she spotted a gas station she pulled into the parking lot. Making sure she had covered her gun again, she adjusted her shirt to expose more cleavage. She wasn’t proud of the move, but she needed all the help she could get today.

By the time he stood beside her door she shook her head. She had seen this man naked, so she knew about the energy barely contained by his uniform. For a crazy second she considered offering him sex if he didn’t write a ticket, even a blowjob. It wouldn’t be the first one she’d given him. She shook her head to clear that naughty thought and lowered her window.

MM’s Bio:

M. M. Mayfield sneaks out when Mary Marvella isn't looking. Being the evil twin of a teacher isn't easy, but it can be fun! Mary Marvella writes romantic suspense and woman's fiction with steamy sex. M.M. Mayfield writes light erotica. Mary is 100% Georgia peach. She loves the stories and characters who live in her head

With their break over, the band returned to the small stage and the recorded music ended. The chaos of the dance floor resumed with the band’s return. One of the men broke away from the group on the dance floor and approached Jo’s table. He touched his fingers to the brim of his black hat and favored her with a wide smile. Josie acknowledged him with a gentle inclining of her head. Her fingers tightened on the gooseneck bottle in her hand.

“Pardon me, but I think you’ve got my chair.”

Jo laughed. “Nice try, cowboy. But I don’t think so.”

His smile broadened. “Worth a try.”

When the band struck up a slow song her cowboy fixed her with his deep blue gaze. “Care to dance?”

Why not? He’d rescued her, after all. “Sure.”

The guy had some smooth moves, Jo gave him that much as he guided her confidently around the dance floor. He held her at a respectful distance. His hand touched lightly at her lower back with just enough pressure to allow her to easily follow his lead.

One number flowed into another and Jo found herself reluctant to leave the cowboy’s arms. Her great-great- grandmother’s journal hadn’t mentioned how entrancing an evening could be with a real cowboy. The longer they danced the more comfortable she felt in his arms. The tequila gave Jo a hard-won sense of power and self-confidence. She liked the feel of his arms around her. His scent, tangy citrus with a hint of leather, intoxicated her. She wanted more, much more from her cowboy. Her head found its way to his shoulder. Her breasts pressed against the firm, muscled wall of his chest. The music, slow and sensuous, created a surreal world around them. Josie melted into his embrace, her body eager for the warmth of his. She inhaled his exotic scent and lifted her head from his shoulder. His blue eyes met hers and a half smile lifted the corner of his lips.

“I’ll be in touch.” Danika rushed to her truck, pitched the bag through the open window. She opened the door and glanced over her shoulder to see Jeph Cabot standing not three feet from her. Stumbling, she raked her shin down the frame “Holy hell,” she cursed under her breath and lost the power of speech completely when his hand cupped her elbow. His touch rang every bell. The heat stoked the fires burning through her belly and a wild fire of need burst through her defenses. The contact shorted her nervous system, blocked rational through and replaced it with full sensory images of the two of them wrapped together.

“Big step there.” He didn’t add the “little girl” but she heard it all the same. Gritting her teeth against the pain and the insult she jerked the door closed and reached back for the seatbelt that eluded her desperate grasp. Turning in her seat, she paused. He held out the unrolled safety belt so she could reach it. Danika barely managed not to snatch the offending belt.

“I’ll be in touch.” Danika started the truck.

“You do that.” He stepped back.

She was not looking for a man, not now and not in the future. She took several Jeph Cabot-free breaths in an attempt to clear him from her body and thoughts. No one needed a chauvinist lover who lacked manners and civility. She shivered, fighting the images flooding her. Jeph Cabot was a gun-toting throwback to rowdy, rough and fierce Texas settlers.

Carol’s Bio:

Carol is a lifelong writer. Born in Vermont she drifted south with her Navy husband until there was no snow to shovel. Now living in Georgia, she is lucky enough to be a full time writer. She heads a local writer’s support group and was nominated for a Ménage Award for her novels of Sanctuary. She writes paranormal erotic fiction, because vampires, werewolves and dragons are HOT!

When not traveling, cruising, or flying to far off countries, Carol hosts weekend fires around a large pit. There friends and family gather, new and old, for wine, laughs and s’mores.